


The Senses

by looneymoony



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, i found this in my drive from last year and most of it was bad, in fact this is bad too dont read it at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9386669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looneymoony/pseuds/looneymoony
Summary: When something happens that he needs to remember, Fiddleford finds it helpful to define what his each of his senses are telling him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Written: March 10, 2016  
> its midnight and i remembered i wrote this almost a year ago and never finished it so it doesnt have a happy ending and ill probably regret posting this come morning but its my life its now or never i aint gonna live forever i just wanna live while im alive???

The moment it passed, he knew he had to commit it to memory.

He ran through the steps, one by one, as he had practiced.

_ Smell _ . The aroma of maple syrup and scrambled eggs was heavy in the air. Susan, who was on the other side of the diner, had put on more perfume than eyeliner. He was just close enough to him to be able to pick up his smell - paper and smoke, with a hint of pine. (The best smell.)

_ Sound _ . The chatter of people around him. Dishes clattering in the kitchen. Birds chirping outside. Someone was coughing; coffee was bubbling. The man across from him was laughing a hearty laugh, which sounded like everything was going to be alright. (The best sound.)

_ Taste _ . The waffles stuffed in his mouth were overly sweet and drowning in maple syrup. He was trying not to snort them out of his nose. He’d swallowed a bit of dust by accident. A memory drifted through the back of his mind; he remembered the taste of anxious lips. (The best taste.)

_ Touch. _ The floor was cold against his bare feet - he’d felt shame when his lack of shoes almost got them kicked out. His heart was beating fast but he was relaxed. He could feel the blood rushing to his face because six fingers touched his. (The best touch.)

_ Sight _ . The morning light was filtering through the window, illuminating the dust particles floating between them. Everything was glowing warm and golden and not in the sour way he usually remembered when things were yellow. Most importantly, he made sure to remember the sight right in front of him; the man with six fingers and glasses, the man with gray hair and gentle prudence, the man with kindness in his eyes and caution set in his jaw, who for one split second had forgotten how tired he was and could throw back his head and laugh.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing anything so beautiful.

Granted, there were a lot of things he couldn’t remember, but he just  _ dared _ something to even try to top this.

The joke he’d told wasn’t funny, but Ford had laughed. Ford had laughed and that was enough to get him laughing. The problem was that his mouth was full of food so he couldn’t really laugh and had to settle for a loud, bizarre snorting noise which turned a couple heads in the diner and [ _ oh God people were  _ looking _ at him again _ ] he pretended not to notice but [ _ he could feel their  _ eyes _ on him _ ] he began to fold in on himself and [ _ he wasn’t wearing shoes he had to get  _ out _ of here _ ] --

“Fiddleford?”

Touch. In the middle of the table, there were six fingers brushing against his own. Sight. A glance upward showed the concern furrowed in Ford’s brow as he searched his eyes for what was wrong. Nothing was wrong. He was fine. [ _ He lived in the mansion at the top of the hill. He’d rescued Ford and stopped the apocalypse. _ ] He clenched his fist and sighed shakily. He was fine.

He cleared his throat and stretched something resembling a smile across his face. He was better than fine. 

Ford didn’t look convinced. His forehead remained creased. Someone behind Fiddleford was still watching. He glared at him with a hint of a snarl curling at his lip. “Is there a problem?” he snapped. The person whipped back around in the booth, shoveling eggs into their mouth.

Breakfast ended quickly.


End file.
